Once: A Barton Brothers Fic
by The Lonesome Rose
Summary: How do you reconcile with the older brother who made you walk away after he raised you for eighteen years? How do you forgive the younger brother who stood you up after your childhood was spent taking care of him? ... a take on the history and re-meeting of Clint and Barney Barton.
1. Clint

It could've just been a hunch, but the reports he'd stolen that mentioned a shifty-eyed HYDRA agent with a crescent scar to the left of his jaw was enough to make Clint read twice.

He'd scampered to his room when he'd heard the footfalls at his door. The way they were heavier meant his father was drunk again and as long as he was, Barney had warned Clint to stay out of the way. He'd only responded with a shrug and an "I'm older" when he'd told Barney to come hide with him.

"Good for nothing vermin. Useless that's what you are. Always eating the last of the food…you ate the last slices of ham, didn't you boy?"

Thwack.

Clint couldn't suppress a shiver as he heard the slashes of his brother being whipped. Barney hadn't even eaten the meat; he'd given it to Clint. It wasn't right. He shouldn't take the blame. He huddled, frozen, at the top of the stairs waiting for his brother to come and say he was okay.

THWACK.

"We send you to school and all you can do is live off us. Good for nothing trash!"

THWACK. THWACK.

For Clint, it feels like hours his heart is beating through his chest not quite loud enough to drown out the sounds of his brother's beating. But close. He waits until his father shuffles to the kitchen before running down to find Barney panting against the wall, his fists tight and his eyes watering. Some of the skin from his jaw is torn off.

"We have better people for this op, Barton." Fury goes to take the file back, but Clint pulls it away.

"Six hours. It's personal." He isn't about to tell the director about the older brother he has that might still be alive, that the last time he saw Barney was when he'd been left half dead and Barney hadn't wanted anything to do with him. When the brother who'd took care of him his whole childhood had suddenly let the plague of envy corrupt him. Stealing, lying… betrayal…

Fury doesn't quite sigh, but he's clearly not happy. "I need a reason for this. You know I can't just let SHIELD agents go where they please with government equipment."

Clint takes the file off the desk. His fingers worry the edges of the manila folder. "I'm cashing in on a personal day."

"You want the time, then fine. But if you wind up in trouble and I have to send agents to haul your ass out of there, you're on suspension for two weeks."

"Understood," mumbled Clint, before making a quick exit. He keeps to himself in the halls, and since he can't use SHIELD's resources on personal time (something about illegal conduct or something, he doesn't read the technicalities of the job description with the microscope like he should've ages ago) so he takes his own black sportcar. They can't have an issue with that, right?

He'd been cleaning up the kitchen, which had been one of his designated chores since he'd been five. The first couple of times he'd broken a dish or a glass and his father would beat him, which gained him the fear of making future mistakes. Better to do it slowly, then too fast, he'd learned. He wiped a glass dry and stood tip-toe on a stool to reach one of the higher cabinets. The door cracked open and he looked over to see his father entering—oddly, not drunk for once. His heart sped up a bit when he caught his father's eyes before quickly looking away—he could never tell what his father would do. Giving a polite nod, he set the glass where it belonged and reached for two of the dry dinner plates and silently begged his father to leave and stop standing there staring. When he heard his father coming closer, he still didn't turn. Tensed up, expected another beating.

He looked dry. His father never beat on him when he was dry.

"Clinton" his father's voice was low, unable to determine the emotions.

"Yes, sir?" he turned around—saw his father's face hard-set, silent fury, and the gun in his hand a second before it was fired.

Clint involuntarily clutched at his shoulder, fingers digging into the bone as he gritted his teeth. The car swerved and he yanked the wheel back with both hands.

He was usually the one home during the day. They only had money to send one of the boys to school and Barney was the older one, meaning he got things first. _I hate being away_, he'd confessed to Clint as the brothers lay awake at night whispering. _You're here alone with mom and she wouldn't raise a finger to protect you against dad. _Clint could usually time him by the clock since Barney rarely made detours before coming home.

_I heard the shot even before I got to the door. It wasn't his way to shoot…he'd beat us. I wanted to believe that but then I knew you were the only one home and he left the door ajar again. There was a crack of a dish and a cry of pain. I came in and saw you lying really still on the floor. Hell, you used to be so tiny for an eight-year old. You looked like you were six. And there was dad standing over you and lining up for another shot into the tiny body of his baby boy. _

"Leave him alone, bastard!" Barney lunged at his father and tore the gun from his hand.

His father backhanded him roughly across the face. "Watch your mouth, boy!"

The gun went off once. Twice… a bullet in the wall, another to shatter the window above the sink. When the gun clicked empty, Barney backed off breathing hard.

"What did he even do?"

Like every other time his father had ever looked at him, his eyes were bleeding with hate. He hated these kids he never wanted, that he had to support.

His shoulder was a pulsing heat. Clint whimpered when he felt his brother touching him.

"Clint… Clint…you're going to be okay. You need to stay with me."

He swallowed, blearily opening his eyes to see Barney force a grin for his benefit.

"Hey, hey, you're going to be okay. You're tough. You can take it. You can take it, Clint."

_You can take it._

Clint pulled to the side of a road, found a gas station and pulled in between a minivan and a Camaro. Shutting off the engine, he pulled the map back in front of him. The HYDRA base was five miles out. He'd have to be on foot here on.

_I was only five when you were born. I'd never seen anything that small—the paper said you were barely six pounds. When you'd still been in her, I'd sit next to her since I couldn't fit in her lap and she'd read me stories. A lot of times she'd smell like dad, like liquor. Maybe he told her to do it. Clint, you're going to hear it all your life from them: they didn't want you. They didn't want either of us. But then I finally saw you all new and tiny and I promised I'd always look out for you. _

_Brothers, Clint. Brothers. _

And what kind of brother were you when you left me out there to die? Clint had never forgiven Barney for leaving him almost dead. You didn't just raise a kid brother for fifteen years and then turn on him like that. He saw the rising structure of the HYDRA base looming closer. What was Barney doing there anyway? When he came as close as he dared, Clint climbed up a tree and settled in with binoculars to wait it out.

It's been five hours.

He'd never remembered much of his mother. She'd been there, but she was a shadow compared to their father. When he got hurt, she'd offer a bandage perhaps a kiss and some hurried words of comfort before she told him to go find his brother. Barney had practically raised him. Sometimes, Clint would be in the kitchen cleaning and he'd see her come down, pretending not to see him, to take a liquor bottle from the top shelf and take a long drink. She wasn't addicted like their father, at least not an angry addiction. Hers was more of desperation.

Maybe her indifference masked her fear. Maybe she hadn't been capable of raising two small boys, hadn't been ready for them so her solution was to leave them to fend for themselves. Her touch rarely felt like love.

Clint stifled a yawn, squinting in the dying light to read the time. 9:45. He hoped he wouldn't have to go in there and ask for his brother. If he gets suspended for two weeks, he'll be tempted to kill himself out of boredom. Suspension means catching up on paperwork and there's nothing Clint hates (and takes all measures to avoid) in the world more. If he tries to pawn it off on his handler, Coulson only raises one eyebrow at his pathetic expression and sets another five files to-be-completed in his arms before shoving him out the door. _And no coffining up, Barton. You need a clear mind to do those. If you get tired, I'll send the director by to wake you up. _

He's always been smaller than his brother. For years, he'd stood as high as he could on his toes to try to be as tall as Barney was. He's blinking back a flash of Barney measuring him at six years before Barney's fist makes contact with his face again.

"Hell, Clint. What the hell."

Clint shifts enough to roll over, scrambling out of Barney's reach and drop his hand to his belt to pull out a handhold and snap off the safety. "What the hell made you pull in with HYDRA. I always thought you were smarter than that…. _Don't_." He catches Barney cocking his gun and he tenses, waiting to shoot. "Don't make another mistake."

"Why? You keeping count?" Barney drawls, smirking at Clint behind his gun. "You think just because you tracked me down that you have the right to erase the past twenty years?" his voice hardened. "I'm not the one who walked away first. You left me. I took care of you for fifteen damn years _and then you walked away_."

It shouldn't get to him. Clint's learned to swallow the emotion and keep a straight face, but this isn't like every other job he's faced. His hands start to shake.

"Our lives weren't perfect, but at least they were something until you screwed it up."

He cocks his head. Faint voices, footsteps. He grins slowly. "Over here! SHIELD trespasser!" His eyes never leave Clint's and he keeps the gun held on his younger brother until the reinforcements come. He isn't sure that Barney wouldn't end up pulling the trigger. But a part of him still wants to believe that he wouldn't do it anyway.


	2. Coulson

It was always quieter when Clint was out of his office, logically productivity rates should increase without being constantly bothered by an overgrown five year old. He closed the file and suppressed a sigh, reaching for the cup of coffee sitting on the corner of his desk that had gone cold hours ago.

He'd just finished writing up a case file on Tahiti and had been reaching to go over the finer details of a current op in Moscow, when his door had swung open bringing with it the aroma of Brazilian coffee then shut before the files neatly stacked to one side of his desk were shoved aside. With a frown, Coulson set down his pen to see that one highly dangerous asset was sitting on the edge of his desk. "Barton."

"Look, Phil. Coffee."

"I can see that."

It followed with a file being handed over. And he had only to take one look at the description and one at Barton's face to know what this was about.

"It's ninety percent chance it's him, Phil."

"You don't know that. It could be anyone."

"It's not just 'anyone'." Barton took the file back, staring down at it while his fingers continually made the edges more dog-eared. "No one else knows. All Fury knows is I'm filing a personal day, it's all I need, Phil. I go in and see it's him…" "

And then what?" Coulson took the file from him and folded his hands over it. His eyes ran over his asset's face that had somehow aged ten years… he could almost name the shadows that lurked in Barton's eyes. "You told me what happened. Are you ready to face him again?" "

It's my brother, Phil."

The brother who left you to make your own, wasn't it?

One incident couldn't erase a lifetime, but he'd still remembered the first time Barton had admitted he had a brother out there somewhere.

_Last chance I saw him he wanted to start over. Join the army and make things right, I guess. I should've gone with him—he wanted me to—but I was still hurting from when he left me. Just bleeding out in the dirt while he and Trickshot ran off with their money. He actually looked at me after he pulled the shot, Phil. He looked right at me. And then you know what that bastard did? Turned and left me there like it was all my fault._

After the initial confession, bits and pieces came in through following conversations. Barney was the brave one who stuck through everything. Barney was the only part of his childhood that didn't suck. Barney would offer us half his allowance once a month so Clint could buy his comics—Captain America mostly.

"Still here?" The Director looked at Coulson in exasperation then at the pile of papers on his desk. "Those can wait until morning. Go home."

It was going for eleven thirty. He wasn't sure where the time had gone since he didn't have the work done to show for it.

Barton.

Did he _really_ get more work done while the assassin was hanging around? "This. This has to stop." He meant it more to himself, but the Director interpreted it as a confirmation.

"You're damn right it does. Get up and start walking." It was that tone that implied immediate action. Five minutes at most to wrap things up, if the Director was in a good mood. He waited until Coulson made a show of pulling away the papers before he walked back out.

Pulling open drawers, he searched his desk until he found the device to track Clint. All SHIELD agents were required to have trackers in case of emergency evacs. Back in his first days at SHIELD, Clint had pulled out exactly three fake molar homing beacons until Coulson warned him the next time the tracker would go under his skin. He hated having his location on grid, but Coulson had assured him it was only for his own welfare. He'd known he couldn't tell Barton no.

"So. You're okay with it."

Even if he said no, the assassin would still find a way to go. If he cut off all Clint's resources, he'd still get out. Coulson studied his asset for a few seconds before he stood up and rested a hand on the younger man's shoulder. This might not work out, he wanted to tell him. Even if this doesn't work out, I'll still be here for you, Clint. Instead, he only said "You can take it, Clint."

Clint nodded up at him. "Yeah. I can take it."

He tucked the device in a pocket and strode past the unknowing Director who promptly locked the door behind him.


	3. Barney

"Rogue agent must've gotten stupid in getting so close to the base. Yeah, he's a nobody. Used to know him, but that was before I was smarter." Barney stares into the holding cell—takes in the bruises becoming visible on his younger brother's face, a black eye, the reddened chaff of the metal on his wrists and a short line of chain that doesn't let him move around much.

"Think you can handle him?"

"Yeah. He's not that big." He slips into the cell and turns to see the other agent lock it behind him.

"Just call when you want out or he beats you up."

Barney snorts. Clint's never been able to get the upper-hand with him; he isn't worried about that.

Until Clint looks at him like that. Accusing. Betrayal.

The point of the arrow had wavered between him and Trickshot, but he'd known Clint couldn't do it… he wouldn't shoot his own brother.

"Don't do it, Barney." Clint pulled the string more tautly. It would be almost comical—the skinny kid threatening with a bow that had been custom-made since he wasn't strong enough for the standard size.

Trickshot only laughed. "You're going to stop us? You're going to shoot your own mentor?" His tide of amusement vanished and he grew serious again. "We're only taking our due…why don't you come with us and take a share?"

Clint shook his head, looking to Barney again. He was waiting for his older brother to side with him, fight with him… or defend him?

"Stand down, Clint."

"But…"

"_Stand down_ or I'll shoot."

Clint's face hardened and he let the arrow go in Trickshot's wrist.

The sharpshooter cursed and snatched up a gun.

One instant Clint was lining up another shot and the next he was staggered on the ground with two bullets in his left leg.

Clint shot. Shot still ringing in his head. Dad shooting Clint. Barney lowered the gun he'd shot, feeling sick. It wasn't supposed to be like this…he wasn't his father, he was _better_, he'd raised Clint.

His younger brother stared up at him, both hands cupping his leg as the blood flowed. He screamed when Trickshot stormed over and began kicking him.

"Who'd you tell, Clint? _Who'd you tell?!_"

You've got to tell him…you've got to tell him or he'll kill you. Barney takes a step closer, torn between his mentor and his brother.

Clint only clammed up, shaking his head vigorously as Trickshot continued. A scream escaped him when the archer broke his arm with an audible crack.

"Why would you be that stupid. One agent hanging around the base, just looking for trouble, but that was always you, wasn't it? You get in scrapes and expect to get pulled out like you're five again."

"You walked away first." Clint says it low under his breath, but looks right at Barney when he says it.

_You let Trickshot nail me and you just stood there_. "What are you doing with HYDRA anyway?"

"When did I need your approval on anything?" Barney shoots back. "I practically self-raised you from the minute you were born so don't go making me accountable to you."

He'd only been six at the time, but even he hadn't understood why no one was making the baby hush up. He'd been sprawled on the floor reading with fingers jammed in his ears as he tried to focus on the words and not the wailing cries.

Seven eight nine ten eleven… he counted the seconds… why wasn't mom making the baby stop? … thirt- no, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…

Barney had gotten to thirty before he left to see what the problem was. He found Clint screaming for attention, his face red and splotchy from the tears. Mom should've known better that to leave him alone. Uncertainly, Barney picked his little brother up like he'd been taught (supporting his head, firm hold, but gentle, check and check) and tried to calm him. "Come on, do you have to be so loud? I guess you're hungry?"

Clint seemed to calm a bit, but didn't actually stop crying until Barney mixed and warmed a bottle of formula for him. He sucked away while Barney kept a protective hold on him.

It would be an hour later before their mother came back to find Barney still holding his brother, then sleeping, and reading to him from the book he'd started earlier. There'd be a near-empty bottle of vodka in her hand. And she'd only give one look at Barney before she took Clint away, warning Barney to be more careful with the baby, and left him alone.

I was the only one who cared about you, Clint. No one else did.

He doesn't like seeing his brother here, held prisoner, tortured for information probably, when he still remembers holding that tiny newborn.

Clint doesn't even want to look at him. Focuses on the cuffs instead.


End file.
